


The Coriolis Effect

by Anarfea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Character Death, Dom/sub, Emotional Manipulation, Enemies to Lovers, First Time, Fluffy--By Sheriarty Standards, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Opinions May Vary as to Whether or Not the Character Who Dies is Major, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sherlock's Violin, True Crime, Under-negotiated Kink, Unsafe Firearms Usage, Unsafe Sex, Virgin!Sherlock, but it is not Jim or Sherlock, depending on your POV, poetic (ab)use of science, violin porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-14 11:04:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2189310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/pseuds/Anarfea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock didn’t believe in fate.  History was a matter of cause and effect, not predestination.  But, as Mycroft was wont to say, the universe was rarely lazy, and it was apparent that major events in his life had been set in motion by James Moriarty.  He’d been walking down a path Jim had set him on for years.  A path that had led him here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction: Foucault Pendulum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alter/gifts).



> This fic was written for the 2014 Summerlock Exchange. Thanks to Alter for the wonderful prompt, and to my beta squad, 3littleowls, alutiv, Prurient_curiosity, and gowerstreet.
> 
> Note that I have chosen not to use archive warnings, because I think the tags are more specific. Mind them, please.

“Good old Watson!  You are the one fixed point in a changing age.”

\-- Arthur Conan Doyle, “His Last Bow”

 

“Every point of the universe is a fixed point: all you have to do is hang the Pendulum from it.”  

\-- Umberto Eco, _Foucault’s Pendulum_

 

[ ](http://www.fas.harvard.edu/~scdiroff/lds/NewtonianMechanics/FoucaultPendulum/FoucaultPendulum.html)

  
This fic was written to fill the following prompt: For every universe where Sherlock Holmes and John Watson find each other, there must be just as many where they don’t.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Source for the [Foucult Pendulum](http://www.fas.harvard.edu/~scdiroff/lds/NewtonianMechanics/FoucaultPendulum/FoucaultPendulum.html)


	2. Inertial Observer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> In the inertial frame of reference (upper part of the picture), the black ball moves in a straight line. However, the observer (red dot) who is standing in the rotating/non-inertial frame of reference (lower part of the picture) sees the object as following a curved path due to the coriolis and centrifugal forces present in this frame.
> 
> [Animated gif.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coriolis_effect#mediaviewer/File:Corioliskraftanimation.gif)

Sherlock edged forward, mindful of the dark and possibly not empty gallery above him, trying to make out the face of the slender, suit clad figure moving behind the pillars of the indoor swimming pool where Carl Powers had been murdered in 1989.

“Are those the Bruce Partington missile plans in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?”  The voice echoed off the tile walls and the lapping water, lit turquoise from below.

“Both.”  Sherlock pulled the USB stick out of his pocket and held it aloft so the other man could see it.  “This is what it’s all been for, hasn’t it?  All your little puzzles; making me dance--all to distract me from this.”  It hadn’t worked, though.  Even while he’d solved puzzle after puzzle, pip after pip, he’d tracked down the missile plans misplaced by Mycroft’s idiot MOD man, though of course he’d told his brother he was too busy saving the lives of Moriarty’s abductees to help.  The British Government had droned on about how they couldn’t possibly risk them falling into the wrong hands while Sherlock had sawed out ‘God Save The Queen’ on his violin.  He’d decided they would make a sufficiently valuable getting-to-know you present for an adversary who’d been willing to lose thirty million pounds if Sherlock managed to prove the ‘recovered’ Vermeer was a fake.

So he’d posted: “Found. The Bruce-Partington plans.  Please collect.  The pool.  Midnight,” on his website.  And then he’d waited.  Meeting this mysterious Moriarty certainly sounded more interesting than a knighthood.

The figure stepped out into the half light, face lit an uncanny green from the combination of the flickering fluorescents and the pool.

Sherlock blinked.  It was Molly’s gay boyfriend, he couldn’t remember--

“Jim Moriarty,” the man supplied helpfully.  “Hi-i!” the word lilted into two syllables, which gave Sherlock the distinct impression they’d been said with an effeminate hand wave, although in fact Moriarty had both hands deep in the pockets of his sleek suit.  He smirked at Sherlock.  “You were expecting someone more… sinister.”  He absently fingered the dark tie printed with polka dots and skulls, held in place with a gold pin.  “I did try.”

A slow, self-satisfied grin crept over Moriarty’s features, broadening until he showed his teeth.  He met Sherlock’s gaze, chin dropping, black eyes boring into him until he’d made it sufficiently clear that he was, in fact, mad enough to kidnap random strangers and strap Semtex vests to them, make them sob alternatingly threatening and flirtatious messages into the phone.  A red point of light appeared on the toe of Sherlock’s shined shoe and crept up his inseam, flickering across his groin, belly, and sternum.  He lost sight of it after that, but deduced it had probably settled on his forehead.

“Dull.”  Sherlock held his gaze, refusing to flinch.  “You’re no more original than Hope with his cigarette lighter.”

“Snipers are a bit cliche, it’s true, but necessary.  Who do you think was keeping an eye out through the window in case you guessed the wrong pill?”

“I never guess,” said Sherlock.

Moriarty’s eyes sparkled.  “Yes you do.”  

“Why sponsor Hope?” he asked, changing the subject.

“We had a common interest.”

“You were ‘fans.’”

Moriarty beamed.  “Just so.”

Sherlock folded his arms over his chest.  “There are two types of fans.”

“Only two?”

“‘Catch me before I kill again: type A.’”

A smile played around Jim’s lips.  “I like that game.  But so did Hope, so I’m guessing you think I’m type B?”

Sherlock sniffed.  “‘Your bedroom’s just a taxi ride away.’”

Jim chuckled.  “Ohhh, you mean ‘Jim,’ from IT.  Slipping my number under the dish.  Did you like the little touch with the underwear?”

Sherlock glanced at Moriarty’s waistband.

“I’m not wearing them _now_.”  He ran his hands down the length of his own body.  “Westwood.  Underwear would ruin the suit lines.”  Moriarty closed more space between them, inserting himself into Sherlock’s personal space.   “We don’t need a taxi.  Or a bedroom.”  He reached out for the USB stick, closing his hand around Sherlock’s.

To Sherlock’s complete surprise, Jim plucked the USB stick from his hand and tossed it over his shoulder into the pool without looking.  It hit the water with a splash.

Jim shrugged.  “Could have gotten those anywhere.  But these…” Jim slowly, deliberately, brought Sherlock’s fingertips to his lips and kissed them.  “Had to come here for these.”

Sherlock made no effort to pull his hand away, watching with detached fascination.

“So tell me, Sherlock Holmes,” Jim murmured into his fingers.  “Which kind of fan are you?”

Sherlock smiled the smile he used when he wanted people to think anything they’d like.  “You’re a specialist.  Like me.  ‘Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover’s nasty sister?’  ‘Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?’”

“Consulting criminal,” said Jim, lowering Sherlock’s hand.

“Brilliant.”

“Isn’t it?” Jim’s grin broadened.  “No one ever gets to me.  And no one ever will.”

“I did,” he challenged.

“You’ve come the closest.” Jim stepped into him until they were literally toe to toe.  “Now you’re in my way.”

Sherlock’s lip twitched.  “Thank you.”

“Didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“Yes you did.”

Jim shrugged.  “Yeah, okay, I did.  But the flirting’s over, Sherlock.”  His voice lilted into a sing song again.  “Daddy’s had enough, now.”  He touched a button on Sherlock’s shirt with each word.

Sherlock did his best to ignore Moriarty’s hand.  It was uncomfortably warm against his chest.  He’d expected Jim’s fingers would be cold.  “No you haven’t.”

Jim chuckled.  “Okay, I haven’t.”  He paused, thoughtful.  “Maybe I never will.  I’ve shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play.  But I’ve got a business to run, Sherlock, and it’s bad for business, this little game of ours.”  He stepped back, upturning his palms.  “So I’m going to give you two choices.  You can fuck off,” he pantomimed a walking gesture with his fingers in the direction of the pool doors, “or,” he pitched his voice low, “you can fuck me.”

Sherlock snorted at the absurdity of it all.  “And, let me guess: if I refuse, I get killed.”

Moriarty giggled.  “Kill you?  I can only kill you once; I can fuck you again and again.”  Jim ran his hand down the side of Sherlock’s face, cupping his neck.  

Sherlock took slow, even breaths, practicing the exercises he’d learned in Tibet to keep his pulse steady.  The press of Moriarty’s palm against his throat was more distracting than he’d anticipated, it wouldn’t do for his carotid to flutter underneath Jim’s fingers.  

“No one’s coercing you, you know,” said Jim.  As if to prove his point, he snapped his fingers, and the laser sight dropped down Sherlock’s body and winked out on the tile.  “If you don’t choose me, I’ll be a bit…” the corners of his mouth turned down, “disappointed.  But I won’t hurt you as long as you stop prying.”  He walked his fingers around Sherlock’s collar, brushing along his throat to the open ‘v’ at the top of his shirt.

From this close, Sherlock could smell him.  Spicy, musky, with notes of oak and cedar.  Cologne, not aftershave; Jim’s chin hadn’t seen a razor in three days.  He felt an inexplicable urge to run his fingertips over the stubble.

“But if you do pry,” Jim said, his voice dripping in artificial sweetness, “I will _burn_ you.  You thought things were bad when Lestrade hauled you out of the gutter--oh yes, I know all about it.  You don’t know the meaning of despair; cross me, and I will teach you.”

Sherlock scoffed.  “Am I supposed to be frightened?”

“Not unless you force me to be frightening.” Jim stroked his hair, curling his fingers affectionately behind his ear,  “So tell me, my dear.  What’s it going to be?”

For a minute, he was certain Jim would rise up and kiss him.  Sherlock had been kissed once, by Violet de Merville, in first form.  She’d slipped up next to him while he was mounting a _Melolontha melolontha_ in a box, planted her lips on his, briefly forced her tongue into his mouth, and run away.  Sherlock had been repelled, and had accidentally crushed the beetle.  He’d later discovered it had been some kind of dare.  He wasn’t sure whether or not Moriarty repelled him, but he was certain that he was now the one being dared.  He wondered how Jim’s mouth might feel against his.

The tinny strains of a cell phone blaring the Bee Gees shattered the heavy silence of the pool.  Sherlock blinked.  The song “Stayin’ Alive” was unmistakably emanating from Moriarty’s jacket pocket.  Sherlock wasn’t sure what sort of ringtone he’d imagined the world’s only consulting criminal would have, but this wouldn’t have made his top ten list.  Whatever else Jim Moriarty might be, he wasn’t predictable.

Jim winced, rolling his eyes, and removed his hand from Sherlock’s hair, sighing heavily.  “Do you mind if I get that?”

“Don’t let me stop you.”

“I won’t,” said Jim, and answered the phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  [Source for the Coriolis Effect](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coriolis_effect)


	3. Rotating Reference Frame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A rotating frame of reference is a special case of a non-inertial reference frame that is rotating relative to an inertial reference frame. An everyday example of a rotating reference frame is the surface of the Earth.

Moriarty had broken into the Tower of London.  Bank of England.  Pentonville Prison.  And, apparently, 221B Baker St.  Sherlock regarded the violin case resting on his work table in the sitting room with suspicion.  It was distinctly possible, in light of Moriarty’s game with the pips, that it contained a bomb.  He really ought to take it out of the flat and x-ray it.

He opened the case.  It was a fine outfit: humidity controlled, and lined in red velvet.  He lifted the fabric to reveal the instrument underneath.  At a glance, it was clear it was old.  The varnish showed signs of wear, especially on the purfing of the right upper bout beneath where the player’s hand would sit.  He carried it to the window and tilted it under the light to peer through the f-hole at the label:

 

> _Antonius Stradiuarius Cremonensis Faciebat Anno 1696_

If it was a forgery, (and it almost certainly was, though he wouldn’t put it past Moriarty to get his hands on the genuine article) it was a good one.  The name was spelled correctly for a violin crafted prior to 1730, and the label was clearly made from laid paper, as was evidenced by the grid of lines formed by centuries of dust settling into the screen set linen.  And the date itself was modest; most forgeries had the numeral 17 printed on the label with the last two, handwritten digits claiming the violin had been made sometime during Stradivari’s ‘golden period’ of around 1700 to 1725, depending on whom you asked.  Something about that date was pulling at his memory--

“Oh,” he whispered aloud, running his hand down the violin strings to the bridge, looking for the tell-tale signs of repairs beneath.  His heart beat faster when he found them, and the pair of dark marks, almost like beauty spots, to the right of the tailpiece.  He remembered the photographs, now, of the 1696 strad stolen by three thugs while the owner was eating at a Pret outside Euston station.  The leader of the little group had been jailed a year or two ago after trying to sell the instrument for a hundred pounds, but the violin and accompanying bows had never been recovered.

_Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to offload this stolen Stradivarius?_

He should call Lestrade.  He should take the violin to the Met and turn it in.  He plucked the strings.

They were warm, plangent even though out of tune.  Gut core strings, suited to an antique instrument and older repertoire.  He selected the topmost of the two bows in the case, testing the weight of it in his right hand.  Perfectly balanced.  He was confident this was the superior of the two bows stolen along with the violin, itself worth tens of thousands of pounds, he remembered.  He tightened the hair and applied the gold flecked rosin he found stashed in the case next to an extra chinrest, which he recognized as the custom molded one the violin’s owner had mentioned was one of the instrument’s unique identifiers.  There was also a shoulder rest, which he noted with trepidation, though not surprise, was a Wolf, like his own.  It was also adjusted to the same settings.  The presence of the violin in his flat was proof Moriarty had broken in.  Why it should disconcern him that he’d apparently taken the measurements of Sherlock’s violin accessories, he couldn’t say.

He put on the shoulder rest and tucked the violin under his jaw.  The chin rest that had been mounted on the violin fit him perfectly.  The instrument itself felt nearly weightless under his head.  He took in a deep breath and let it out as he pulled the bow across the A string.  It responded instantly, sounding at a featherweight touch as he tuned the slightly finicky pegs.

Sherlock knew that decades of blind tests and acoustic analysis had shown that Stradivarius violins were, objectively speaking, no better than other fine instruments produced by the master luthiers of other eras.  Still, even though he knew it was irrational, there was a certain thrill at placing his hand around a neck where perhaps scores of other violinists’ hands had been, of playing an instrument crafted by a man who had advanced his profession so significantly that, centuries later, his creations were so coveted that people paid fortunes for them, stole them, created trusts which loaned them to the worlds’ greatest musicians.  His mother had wanted a career in music for him.  For a time, he’d wanted it for himself.  All these thoughts and more crowded his mind and were then forced out when he played an open four string chord after he finished tuning the violin.  The instrument resonated so strongly his teeth rattled.

Sherlock froze, taken aback, and returned the violin to its case, stopping to unlace his shoes and remove them along with his socks.  He picked up the instrument again, and walked past the edge of the red Turkish rug, onto the bare floorboards.  They were cool beneath his naked feet.  He began again, playing only open strings, experimenting with different bow strokes until his hand felt less like a hoof and more like he had opposable thumbs again.  At a _forte_ , the violin’s vibrations ran through his body from his jaw to his toenails.  

He paused to flex his wrists and roll his shoulders out and then started scales, beginning with G and progressing around the circle of fifths.  The room filled with mellow sweetness as the instrument came alive under his hands, responding like the only lover he ever cared to know.  He switched to arpeggios, then, at last, to melodies, slurring and sliding through Heifetz’s arrangement of ‘It Ain’t Necessarily So’ for the pure sacrilege of it.  By the time he’d begun to improvise, letting his instinct and the timbre of the instrument guide him through soaring bittersweetness, the light streaming through the windows had changed from gray to yellow as the sun went down and the streetlights came on.  And he knew, from his blackened fingertips to the balls of his sore feet, that he was never, ever letting this violin go.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There really was a 1696 Stradivarius stolen from a Pret outside Euston Station in 2010.  The instrument, valued at £1.2m, was stolen from violinist Min-Jin Kym when she stopped to eat and placed the violin case under her chair.  The instrument was recovered in 2013 and sold for £1.38 million at auction.  News articles, including video of the instrument being played (in the second link), are below:
> 
> <http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-13011787>
> 
> <http://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-24806072>
> 
> Sherlock’s deductions are drawn partly from the below sources detailing the methods experts use to appraise and authenticate violins:
> 
> <http://www.myviolin.co.uk/violin-labels.html>
> 
> <http://www.skinnerinc.com/news/blog/violin-appraiser-how-to-identify-violin-label/>
> 
> I’ve used my own imagination to fill in details, so some things may not be 100% accurate.
> 
> A recording of Jascha Heifetz performing his version of “It ain’t necessarily so,” by George Gershwin can be viewed here: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AhOeK57OZdw>
> 
> Source for[ Rotating Reference Frame](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rotating_reference_frame)
> 
> Special thanks to my beta Prurient_curiosity for this one, as this chapter is basically a plot bunny I stole from him.


	4. Fictitious Force

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fictitious force, also called a pseudo force, d'Alembert force or inertial force, is an apparent force that acts on all masses whose motion is described using a non-inertial frame of reference, such as a rotating reference frame.

As soon as Mycroft had secured his release from the cells, Sherlock went home, tidied the flat a bit, and put the kettle on.  He also tuned the violin and began warming up.  He ignored the text from Lestrade which he he knew would be expressing outrage at Moriarty’s acquittal.  Of two things, he was certain; if Moriarty wanted the Crown Jewels, he’d have them, and if he hadn’t wanted to get caught, he wouldn’t have been.  ‘Get Sherlock,’ he’d written on the glass in an image they’d printed on the front page of The Sun.  He was advertising, plain and simple.

He’d just begun ‘Partita Number One’ (he’d been working his way through the unaccompanied Bach repertoire, which the Strad sang as though it had been created to perform Bach, or as though Bach had written the music for it) when he heard the faint scratch of the lock on 221B being picked, followed by a squeak on the eighth of the seventeen steps.  He finished his phrase and turned towards the doorway just as Jim walked through the kitchen into the sitting room.

“Most people knock,” said Sherlock.  “But then, you’re not most people, I suppose.”   He inclined his head towards the coffee table.  He’d set out a teapot and two cups and saucers.  “Kettle’s just boiled.”

“May I?” Jim asked, walking towards the chairs.

Sherlock waved the bow in the direction of the empty chair opposite his black leather Le Corbusier.

Moriarty smirked and sat in Sherlock’s own seat instead, placing his hands, palms down, on the armrests and folding his leg into a numeral four position, quietly dominating the space.  He’d left his jacket, a dove gray wool, buttoned, and the angle of its lapels and the point of his wolf’s head tie pin made it very clear where he wanted Sherlock to direct his gaze.  The whole presentation should have been transparent.  The clothing was overcompensation: Moriarty had dropped the name of his suit designer at the pool; he’d grown up wearing charity shop clothes and his cousins’ hand-me-downs.  Taking Sherlock’s chair was a blatant power play, as subtle as leaving Carl Powers’ trainers in the middle of the floor of 221C.  And the body language was frankly crude, only one step above a primate penile display.

There was nothing frightening about James Moriarty.  And nothing fetching, either.  Sherlock waited for the feeling of calm that came over him whenever he deduced someone who was trying to intimidate him, the moment when the magician’s tricks were revealed as smoke and mirrors.  It never came.  Somehow, even though he could see through Moriarty’s facade, it was impossible not to look at it.

Moriarty smiled with only one side of his mouth, baring his teeth, and unfolded his legs slowly, peering up at Sherlock with dark, gleaming eyes.  

Sherlock turned away so Jim wouldn’t see him swallow, and poured two cups of tea.  He fixed them each the same--a splash of milk, no sugar.

“Johann Sebastian would be appalled,” Jim drawled, reaching for his cup.  “You know, when he was on his death bed, Bach, he heard his son at the piano playing one of his pieces. The boy stopped before he got to the end--”

“--and the dying man jumped out of his bed, ran straight to the piano and finished it.”  Almost certainly rubbish.  The sensational always triumphed over the truth in history.

“Couldn’t cope with an unfinished melody,” Jim murmured, bringing the cup to his lips and blowing, managing to make the politest of gestures obscene.

“Neither can you. That’s why you’ve come.”

“Finish it,” Jim commanded.

“What, the partita?”

Jim chuckled mirthlessly.  “The game, Sherlock.  The problem.  The final problem.  But sure, why not the partita?  I do so want to hear you play.”  He set his teacup in its saucer with a clink.  “Do you like it?” he asked, gesturing towards the violin.

Sherlock’s jaw tightened, and he set the violin carefully in its case, open on the work table.  “If you think you can buy me, Mr Moriarty, you are mistaken.”

“‘Jim,’ please,” his eyebrows rose almost to his hairline.  “Surely we’re past formalities.  I’m fully aware there are some things money can’t buy.  For everything else, though…” He smiled like a Cheshire cat.  “I can open any door, anywhere, with a few tiny lines of computer code.”  Jim’s eyes were dancing.  “No such thing as a private bank account now; they’re all mine.  No such thing as secrecy; I own secrecy.  Nuclear codes--” he scoffed “--I could blow up NATO in alphabetical order.  In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king.”  He closed his eyes, swiveling his head from side to side as he reveled in his own cleverness.  “And honey, you should see me in a crown.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I wish you had seen it, you know.”  Jim’s expression softened, became almost wistful.    “I wish I’d had you by my side.  In my lap,” his tongue darted over his lower lip lasciviously.  “But you’re boring,” he sighed.  “You’re on the side of the angels.”  He glanced at the Stradivarius, lying in its open case.  “Except... you may have sold your soul to the devil.”

“A ridiculous, superstition driven slander perpetuated by jealous, small minded individuals who didn’t want to believe Paganini’s genius originated in himself, as to do so would be to acknowledge their responsibility for their own mediocrity.”  It came out with more bitterness than he’d intended.

Jim chortled.  “Someone didn’t have many friends at school.”  

Sherlock ignored the familiar jibe, and unbuttoned his jacket, exposing his tight white shirt, which strained at its black buttons.  While he regarded his own body as transport, he was aware of the effect his form had on others.  Two could play at this game.  He sat opposite Moriarty, and picked up his teacup.

Jim stood up, crossed the rug, and stroked Sherlock’s cheek with the backs of his fingers.  “Oh, Sherlock,” he said.  “You’ve met me.  How many friends do you imagine I had?”  He dropped his hand and turned, walking towards the table.  “Aren’t ordinary people deplorable?” he asked, lifting the violin.

Sherlock felt his skin crawling at the sight of Moriarty's hands on his instrument.

“You know; you had Wilkes.  I had Powers.”  Jim shrugged.  “Well, when I say ‘had’…”

“You’re not being ‘delicate.’”  If Jim were clever, that would remind him of Irene’s mistake, of assuming Sherlock’s ‘virginity’ (and what an absurd cultural construction that was) meant he was ignorant of the relationship between sex and power, incapable of using sex as a weapon or defending himself against its use on him.

“I would be.  With you.”

Sherlock’s retort died on his lips when Moriarty tucked the violin under his chin.

Jim tightened the bow hair and plucked the strings with his left hand to insure they were still in tune.  Sherlock blinked, stunned into silence, as Jim began ‘Swallowtail Jig,’ lilting and trilling through the Irish tune.  He moved seamlessly into ‘Tripping up the Stairs,’ twining the melodies in and out of each other in a rudimentary counterpoint.

Sherlock had regained his composure by the time Jim finished with a flourish, but only just.

“Weren’t expecting that, were you?”  Jim smirked.

“You lack a violin bruise or appropriate finger calluses,” Sherlock protested.

Jim pointed the bow at him.  “Which means?”

“You learnt to play as a child, but abandoned it early on and haven’t touched it in years.  Self taught, as evidenced by your technique--and I use the term loosely.”

Jim shrugged, nonplussed.

“Not as a _young_ child, either,” Sherlock continued.  “The only kind of violin that would have been in your household would have been an inherited one, and your father would have pawned it for drink.”

“Probably.”

“So you bought one for yourself, or stole one--a child’s violin, most likely, which you decided not to replace when you outgrew it--literally and figuratively.”

Jim tucked the violin under his arm, absently shifting into rest position.  “Very good.  But you’re missing the most essential detail.”

Sherlock frowned.  

“Why did I take up the violin the first place?”

Sherlock tried to think of why _he’d_ begun the violin.  His parents had considered music an essential part of their children’s education, and Sherlock had always loved the sound.  He’d also delighted in the fact that he’d quickly surpassed Mycroft at music; it was the one thing at which he’d been better as a child.

“How hard is it, having to admit you don’t know?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock muttered, blowing into his tea.

“Ooh, that’s clever,” Jim sniped, “really clever.  I’ll give you a hint--it was a three quarter size.”

“Then you would have been, twelve, thirteen?  Oh.”  Sherlock set the cup delicately in its saucer.  

“Yes.”

“The year you murdered Powers.”

“The year you started prying.”

The year he’d realized he would dedicate his life to The Work, not music.

Sherlock didn’t believe in fate. History was a matter of cause and effect, not predestination. But, as Mycroft was wont to say, the universe was rarely lazy, and it was apparent that major events in his life had been set in motion by James Moriarty.  He’d been walking down a path Jim had set him on for years.  A path that had led him here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A recording of [Henryk Szeryng performing Bach’s Partita Number One](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zzNNOnVLkfs), which Sherlock is playing when Moriarty interrupts him in TRF (and in this chapter).  
> While there are many recordings of the unaccompanied Bach violin pieces, I’m partial to Szeryng’s.
> 
> A recording of the Irish traditional folksongs [“Swallowtail Jig,” and “Tripping up the Stairs”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LMoQg4qzwJs) along with another tune, “The Road to Lisdoonvarna.”  While they don’t actually play the two jigs on top of each other, the melodies and meters would lend themselves to it. Jim would undoubtedly have learned these tunes by ear and wouldn’t have played from sheet music.
> 
> Source for [fictitious force](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fictitious_force)


	5. Centripetal Acceleration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Centripetal acceleration is a property of the motion of a body traversing a circular path. The acceleration is directed radially toward the centre of the circle and has a magnitude equal to the square of the body’s speed along the curve divided by the distance from the centre of the circle to the moving body. The force causing this acceleration is directed also toward the centre of the circle and is named centripetal force.

“I showed you mine.” Moriarty walked across the sitting room, feet padding silently over the rug, and held the Strad out to Sherlock.  “Now you show me yours.”

Sherlock lifted his chin and leaned back into his armchair.  “I’m not a performing monkey.”

“But you _are_ a show off.”

Sherlock’s lips pulled down at the left corner.  “We both are.  It’s what we do.”  He set the teacup in it’s saucer and stood, leaving his jacket unbuttoned.

Moriarty lifted the violin and set it under Sherlock’s chin, walked behind him and curled the fingers of his right hand around his bow, inspiring uncanny physical memories of being positioned by an instructor, which hadn’t happened to him for years.

Sherlock rolled his shoulders and rearranged his form, adjusting the tension of the bow hair even though it was fine.  He took a moment to consider what he would play.  Not a show piece, certainly, in spite of what he’d said.  He needed something he could play completely from memory, without active focus, the kind of piece he could play while pondering the details of a case and arrive to the end without being aware he’d been playing until he stopped.  He started in on Corelli’s ‘La Folia’ sonata, realizing once he’d begun that he’d probably learned this piece around the same time that Moriarty had been teaching himself celtic fiddle music.  It had been one of his earlier lessons in the method of loci; his instructor had asked him to visualize himself taking a walk through the countryside as he played the piece; each variation represented a change in the landscape.  The faintest smile quirked over his lips as he moved through the opening theme, slowly building in volume and sharpening his articulation as he swelled to the end of it.

Jim moved behind him as he began the second variation, walking his fingers across the back of Sherlock’s shoulders, stroking him lightly with each chord change.  Willfully ignoring the tingling that crept down his back along his vertebrae, Sherlock released his breath and closed his eyes.  He knew what this game was; he’d seen Jim play it at the Old Bailey, when he’d asked a visibly flustered female officer to reach into his pocket and place a piece of chewing gum onto his outstretched tongue.  Moriarty liked to sexually intimidate people, and Sherlock refused to be intimidated.  He escaped into a faster section, arm whirling through string crossings, while Jim, who had moved in front of him, watched with his head tilted to the side.

Moriarty grinned and dropped slowly to his knees, running his fingertips up Sherlock’s trouser legs, and _of course_ Jim would choose one of the variations that was all double stops; Sherlock almost looped back to earlier in the piece, but forced himself through it, pressing perhaps a little too hard on the strings when Jim placed his lips over the front of his trousers.  He swallowed, breath coming faster, sweat beginning to slick his palms and interfere with his shifting.  The following variations were easier, but Jim was making it harder for him to concentrate, blowing lightly against him, and he felt himself becoming hard; he grit his teeth and tore through the arpeggios with enough force that the bow crunched at the frog.

As he glided through the slow, sweet iteration leading up to the cadenza, Jim unbuttoned Sherlock’s trousers and worked down his flies.  He drew the variation out, playing perhaps too indulgently to stall for time, when he realized Jim intended to fellate him through the most technically difficult passage.  He suspected Jim knew that this wasn’t something anyone had done to him before, and he had very little idea what to expect other than that it was supposed to be pleasurable.  Still, he wasn’t _alarmed_ , whatever Mycroft had implied.

Sherlock believed quite strongly that cadenzas in baroque repertoire ought to be improvised, but he found himself mostly quoting from variations he’d written out at uni, keeping his eyes fixed on the fingerboard as Jim worked his pants down over his erection.  He clenched them shut when Jim’s mouth (which felt significantly hotter than the 37 degrees celsius logic dictated it had to be) enveloped him.  He gasped, missing a beat, when Jim flicked his tongue around the corona, and stopped altogether as Jim slid down, swallowing until Sherlock could feel the tight passage of his throat beyond the subtle undulation of his tongue.

Jim pulled his mouth off of Sherlock’s cock with a wet sound and looked up at him, eyes bright with challenge.  “Go on.”

Sherlock released a ragged breath and re-played one of the simple variations, lips pursed together, as Jim returned his mouth to Sherlock’s cock.  He brought his hand into it as well, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock’s length as he moved his mouth, coordinating a flick of his wrist and tongue at the top of the stroke.  It more closely resembled what Sherlock did to himself on the rare occasions when he masturbated, and the familiarity of the sensation actually made it worse; while Jim sucking his glans had been pleasurable, he’d known it was too intense for him to orgasm, whereas his transport associated the current type of stimulation with climax.

Sherlock’s fingers fumbled again, and he tried vainly to disguise his misstep as an ornament, then slipped back into the main theme; it was all he could do to hold on to the chord progression.  That and his balance.  Jim seemed to sense this, shifting his trousers down further and cradling Sherlock’s buttocks with both hands, bracing Sherlock’s thighs against his forearms to support him.  It wasn’t going to be enough; he refused to forfeit, but he wasn’t going to be able to remain standing  much longer, either.

Sherlock took the smallest step back and allowed Jim to follow him.  If there was one thing he liked about Moriarty, it was his ability to follow his train of thought quickly.  Jim released him long enough for Sherlock to catch his breath and back himself against the table; he nudged one of the chairs out of the way with his foot and perched himself at the end, legs spread with the soles of his shoes flat on the ground.  Jim positioned himself between them, pausing for a moment to tease Sherlock’s bollocks with his tongue and apply pressure to his perineum before swallowing him down again.

Sherlock bit back a groan, adding a drone to accompany the theme.  He was more or less improvising now, albeit simply.  He’d assumed sex was an activity people unable to control their impulses succumbed to, that afterwards, they felt the furtive mix of relief and disappointment Sherlock felt whenever he indulged in a syringe of cocaine.

He knew sex could be equally addictive when Jim took him in hand again, drawing his foreskin painstakingly across the underside of his glans with the perfect amount of friction.  But the pleasure he felt went beyond the heat curling in his groin or the tension creeping up the backs of his calves.  Jim had made this _clever_ , had made it as much about his brain as his cock.  That was what had briefly attracted him to Irene, but she hadn’t been quite clever enough.  She’d let sentiment dull her intellect.  Sherlock had lost any interest he’d had in her when she’d told him ‘Jim Moriarty sends his love,’ and reminded him who his real opponent in the Bond Air game had been.  The slip of Jim’s teeth along his shaft, the ghost of a threat at the edges of the wet heat of his skilled mouth, reminded Sherlock that Moriarty was his opponent still.

Jim raked his fingers along Sherlock’s hamstrings, and he arched his back, chest rising into his shoulder rest.  He tucked his pelvic bone forwards and dropped his shoulders down, giving himself more room to cross to the higher strings without interfering with Jim.  His buttons strained against the placket of his shirt as his bow strokes opened his chest, and Jim surprised him by ripping the fabric open, clawing his hands up Sherlock’s sides.  He stuttered again, gripping the violin neck with his thumb to keep it steady when Jim locked his hands behind his lower back and began working his mouth up and down in earnest.

Sherlock held the bow motionless out from the strings, and then gave up entirely, letting his right arm drop, all thoughts of playing abandoned.  He curled his left hand over the bout, resolving only not to drop the Strad as Jim resumed the twisting motion from before, sucking with determination and lapping mercilessly at his frenulum.  His abdomen tensed as he struggled for balance; only holding the violin kept him from grabbing Jim by the hair and thrusting into his throat.  He bit his lip hard, curling his toes in his shoes, as his release spread out from his sacrum, up the length of his spine, warmth flooding his pelvic girdle and--Jim’s mouth, he realized when he opened his eyes, saw the triumph in his opponent’s.  Sherlock had lost this game, and yet, through the haze of his orgasm, which had left his legs trembling, he found it difficult to care.

Jim pulled himself up, eyes dancing, and carefully took the violin from Sherlock before he could protest, setting it in its case.  Sherlock slumped on the table, noting absently and with relief that Jim had released the tension on his bow.  He didn’t resist when Jim wrapped his arms around him, cupped his jaw and brought Sherlock’s mouth to his.  He wasn’t sure what he expected kissing Jim would be like, but he hadn’t expected a mouthful of his own ejaculate.  He gasped, and Jim seized the opportunity to plunder Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue.  Sherlock took revenge swiftly, grabbing Jim’s nape with both hands, standing so he could exploit his height advantage and gravity to return the gesture.  Jim didn’t seem to mind at all, sucking the coating from Sherlock’s tongue as though it were honey, twining his small, delicate hands in Sherlock’s curls and sighing into his mouth.

He felt the rigid heat of Jim’s erection against his leg, and even though his own libido was sated he wanted to see, to taste, to touch, to make Moriarty lose control as thoroughly as he himself had, and he realized with mounting distress that he had no idea how exactly to accomplish this other than to attempt to imitate Jim’s gestures.

Jim broke their kiss, and stepped back, eyes gleaming; his tongue darted out to lick the last traces of semen from his mouth.  “You should see yourself,” he whispered, taking Sherlock by the shoulders and walking him awkwardly to the fireplace, turning him to face the mirror.

Sherlock blinked at his own reflection, at his pink-flushed face and swollen lips, at his hair, which looked as though he’d touched a Van de Graaff generator.

Moriarty stood behind him, running his fingers up Sherlock’s belly along the torn edges of his shirt.  “You know they say there’s no one more carnal than the recent virgin,” he whispered into his ear, licking around the helix until Sherlock shivered.  “Suddenly, you’re Mr Sex.”

The face in the mirror turned pinker.

“Look at you, still half hard and thinking--” Jim pressed his groin to Sherlock’s thigh, hands closing over his hips, “--about this.”

Sherlock stumbled, legs tangling in his trousers.

“Brace yourself against the mantel.”

He reached forward, closing his fingers tightly over the wood so they wouldn’t shake.  

Jim angled Sherlock’s hips backward, bowing his back, and he trembled at the sensation of fine wool against his bare thighs.  “All I’ve done is given you a teensy taste, and you’d let me _take_ you, right here, right now, wouldn’t you?”  Jim murmured into his back, laying a kiss between his shoulder blades.

Sherlock shuddered.  While he lacked practical experience, he wasn’t naive.  He understood these things required lubricant, and probably condoms--and _stupid_ , stupid he hadn’t even thought of that when Jim had swallowed him down.  Still, he found himself canting his hips back, making a sound he didn’t know his vocal cords could form when Jim slid two fingers along the cleft between his buttocks and pressed firmly against his anus.

“So trusting.  You have no idea what you’re offering.  I’d love to leave you torn and trembling and covered in me.”  Jim crouched behind him and spread Sherlock with both hands, first blowing over him, and then just _looking_ , and Sherlock tucked his head between his outstretched arms so he wouldn’t see his face in the mirror.

He closed his eyes when he felt Jim stand again, listened to the faint click of metal as he unfastened his belt followed by the whisper of wool on leather and skin on skin has Jim opened his trousers and took himself in hand.

“I did promise to be delicate though, didn’t I?” Jim gripped Sherlock’s hip with one hand while, from the sound of it, he worked himself with the other.  “And I will be, but not today.”

Sherlock clutched the mantle tighter as Jim ruched his shirt up his ribs.

“One day, I’ll lay you on your back and work you open with my tongue and fingers until you’re begging me to fuck you.”  His voice was thick.  “And then, _maybe_ , I’ll do it.  But not until you stop this ridiculous meddling of yours and come with me--and yes,” he grunted slightly with effort, “I mean that in every sense of the word.  Let me show you my world, Sherlock, and I promise you, you will never be bored again.”

Sherlock leaned heavily on his arms and was silent, even when Jim moaned and he felt hot ropes of semen streaking his back.  His torn shirt was a lost cause already, but he was slightly irked about the jacket.

Jim stepped around him and kissed his nape.  “I’ll buy you another shirt.  Use your brother’s credit card to have the jacket dry cleaned.”

He giggled as he thought of what Mycroft would think of him, trousers around his ankles and shirt splattered with come; he doubted his brother would approve of the way Sherlock was going about obtaining carnal knowledge.  In fact, he’d be hard pressed to find a partner Mycroft would disapprove of more.  He pushed himself up from the mantle and fumbled with his pants and trousers, which were slightly damp in front.  The whole suit would need to be dry cleaned.  Or binned.  Perhaps he’d go to Savile Row and send Jim the bill--but no, he mustn’t, _couldn’t_.  This would never happen again.

“We’re not finished,” Jim said.

“I know.”

“And you’re not coming with me.”

“No.”

Jim’s jaw tightened; a vein in his forehead was pulsing.  “Then I will take everything from you.  All the people and things in this little life you’ve carved out for yourself that you think make it worth living.  And I’m going to start--” he closed the violin case, snapping the latches shut and tucking it under his arm “--with this.”

Sherlock kept his face blank until Jim had left the sitting room and descended the seventeen steps down to Baker street.  Then he grabbed the teapot and flung it against the mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are many beautiful recordings of Coreli’s ‘La Folia,’ but my favorite is[ Henryk Szeryng’s](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XS-Nqzprais).
> 
> I’d also recommend the [Vivaldi version of the same set of variations written for two violins](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i4qePY2Wdss).  Alas, I don’t think Jim is skilled enough for him and Sherlock to play together.
> 
> Source for [Centripetal Acceleration](http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/102869/centripetal-acceleration)
> 
> Also, there is now [fanart for this fic!](http://anarfea.tumblr.com/post/155277647018/illustration-for-the-coriolis-effect-by-the-very).


	6. The Coriolis Illusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Coriolis illusion generally occurs when a pilot is in a turn and bends the head downward or backward (e.g., to look at a chart or the overhead panel). This angular motion of the head and of the aircraft on two different planes can cause problems. The turn activates one semicircular canal and the head movement activates another. The simultaneous stimulation of two semicircular canals produces an almost unbearable sensation that the aircraft is rolling, pitching and yawing all at the same time and can be compared with the sensation of rolling down a hillside. This specific spinning sensation is called vertigo. It can quickly disorient a pilot and cause a loss of aircraft control.

 

 

> I’m waiting… JM
> 
>  

Sherlock tucked his phone back into his breast pocket.  He had a plan.  He had thirteen plans, actually.  As he ascended the stairs to Bart’s hospital rooftop, he tried to tell himself that the cramping in his belly was from the Thai he’d eaten with Molly after they’d prepared his ‘corpse’ the night before.  It felt heavy in his stomach.

 Jim was perched on a wall bordering the roof, one leg balanced on the concrete and the other dangling along the side.  The wind played with his hair and coat, which was opened to show the royal blue Westwood suit he’d worn at the pool.  He didn’t look at Sherlock when he stepped out of the stairwell, keeping his eyes fixed on the London skyline.

“I never wanted for it to end this way, Sherlock.”  Jim wiped his face with his palm.  “I did warn you.  But you didn’t listen.”

Sherlock remained silent.  The wind cut through the Belstaff.  He turned his collar up against the cold.  “Richard Brook:   _Reichenbach_.  The case that made my name.”

“No one else seems to get the joke,” he said with a rueful smile.  “You love the Work, Sherlock.  I couldn’t let you keep it.”

“I can kill Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty.”

“You?”  Jim rose from his perch on the wall, uncoiling like a cobra from a basket.  “ _You_ can’t do anything.  Your Big Brother can alter the records.  Without him, you’re nothing.”

The cramp in his stomach intensified.

Moriarty began to pace around him slowly, a boxer looking for a target to strike.  “I suppose I should be flattered, that you were desperate enough you went groveling to the Ice Man.  Did you tell him you were ready to bend over for me?”

Sherlock felt his nostrils flare, but said nothing.

“The two of you have such a flair for the dramatic.  You chose a nice tall building.  Rather cliche way to do it.”

“Do it? Do what?”  The fear in his voice was only half feigned.

“Jump.  To your death.  Or into the washing bags in the hospital van parked down there.”  Jim walked to the wall and pointed, then frowned.  “No.  Angle’s too steep.  What is it then?  Bungee cord?  Air bag?”

Sherlock’s pulse was racing.  Because this, _this_ was not one of the thirteen contingencies.  

“How did you think you would fool me?”  Jim whirled around, began to advance towards him, slowly.  “Did you think I would look away?  That I would be too distraught to watch you do it?  Or did you mean to ask for a moment of _privacy_?” Jim spat the word so close to his face that he felt a fleck of moisture on his cheek.  “I’m disappointed in you, Sherlock.”  He threw his hands in the air.  “Disappointed.”

Well, this scenario he could work with.  He switched mentally to plan number seven: Copernicus.  “I never thought I could fool you.”

Jim stared at him a moment, eyes widening slowly, grinning like a child with a Christmas parcel.  “Oh!  Oh you mean to _kill_ me.”  He chuckled, throaty and low.

Sherlock stepped to the side so that Moriarty’s body would be between him and the building he’d calculated was the most likely location for his sniper, and slowly opened his coat, exposing the Beretta 92FS nicked from Henry Knight tucked in his waistband, tight against his side.

Jim put his fingers to his lips and giggled.  “How tremendously ambitious of you.”   

Sherlock took a cautious step back, keeping himself and his weapon out of Moriarty's reach.

“I shouldn’t need to remind you of the assassins.”

“Three bullets.  Three gunmen.  Three victims.”  Sherlock shrugged.  “Lestrade.  Mrs. Hudson.  Molly.  Mycroft will have invited them to _reconsider_ ,” he dropped his voice low, drawing out the last word.  “Four, if you count the sniper watching us, but you won’t get the press reporting ‘genius detective proved to be a fraud’ if you shoot me.”

Jim chuckled, shaking his head incredulously.  “ _Five_.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“It’s just like the Ice Man to assume he’s untouchable.”  His face became deadly serious.  “He isn’t.  I sent my very best for him.  And she can’t be persuaded.  Let us say her reasons for taking the job are--compelling.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“So call it.”

“I will.”

Jim laughed, the lines around his eyes crinkling.  “No you won’t,” he said in a sing-song.  

It was all Sherlock could do not to shoot him right then, or at least clock him with the Beretta.

“So here, my dear, are your options.”  Jim began to pace around him in circles again.

“Option one: you kill you.  Take out the gun; shoot yourself in the head,” he tapped his temple.  “Nice and permanent.  My man in the building across the street texts my woman in Babylon on Thames and says your brother gets to live.”

“Not going to happen.”

“Suit yourself.  Option two: you kill me.  I’ll be _surprised_ , Sherlock, if you pick this one.” He opened his mouth wide in mock shock.  “Really I will.  Because the only way you survive this scenario is by putting yourself at Mycroft’s mercy.  Even if my man accepts his offer and doesn’t shoot you immediately--and that’s not guaranteed, and you know it, or you wouldn’t be trying to keep me between him and you--you’ll still have committed a murder, and that’s going to complicate your brother's plans to exonerate you--assuming he survives my asset.

“He’ll have to make you disappear.  And he’s going to treat it like he’s doing you a favor.  He’s going to expect a favor in return, which means working for MI6.”  Jim dropped his head and shoulders in an exaggerated display of disappointment.  “All your life, Sherlock, you’ve worked to get out from under the thumb and the shadow of your Big Brother.  And now you want to throw it all away, so he can squander your talents on what, undercover work in Eastern Europe?”

“I prefer option three,” Sherlock said, circling right back, “ _you_ kill you.”

“Oh!”  Jim threw his head back, eyes sparking.  “You think you can make me do that?”

“Yes,” he said, circling closer.  “So do you.”

Jim shook his head.  “Sherlock, your Big Brother and all the King’s horses couldn’t make me do a thing I didn’t want to.”

“Yes, but I’m not my brother, remember?  I am you.  Prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won’t do.”

Jim waved a hand dismissively.  “Nah. You talk big.  But you’re ordinary.  You’re on the side of the angels.”

Sherlock reached for Jim with one arm and tucked it behind his neck, pulling him close, wrapping the wings of the Belstaff around them both.  He leaned down, as if for a kiss, and with the other hand he slipped the Beretta from his waistband and tucked the muzzle under Moriarty’s chin.

He felt Jim’s pulse flutter under his fingertips.

“I may be on the side of the angels,” he whispered into Jim’s ear, “but don’t think for one _second_ that I am one of them.”

Jim bit his lower lip, and then parted them slowly, tilting his neck so the barrel scraped his laryngeal prominence.  He swallowed.  “No, you’re not.  You won’t ever be.  They’ll never understand you, never accept you; you keep trying, and still you’re on the outside, looking in, and for what?”

Sherlock pressed the muzzle against his trachea hard enough that Jim coughed.

He smiled.  “Alright, I’ll do it.”

Sherlock frowned.

“But only if you do it, too.”

Sherlock grabbed both of Jim’s lapels with one fist, still holding the Beretta with the other.  “If you think I’m entering a suicide pact, you’re insane,” he snarled, pushing Jim back against the wall, overbalancing him.  

“Woah-oh!”  Jim threw his arms wide, windmilling, grin broadening as Sherlock dangled him over the edge.  “You’re just getting that now?”

Sherlock tightened his hand around the folds of Jim’s coat and pulled him him upright again.

Jim smirked, rolling his pelvis into Sherlock’s thighs.  “Do whatever you and Mycroft planned.  Call DI Lestrade.  Stand on the ledge and tell him what a fake you are.  Do your swan dive.  I’ll do the same.”

“I hardly think Mycroft’s people would react well to you landing on the airbag.”

Jim sighed.  “Don’t be stupid.  I’m not going to jump _with_ you.”

“How are you going to--”

Jim pressed a finger against Sherlock’s lips.  “Shhh… It’s a magic trick.  No one wants to see the show anymore if they know the magician’s tricks.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Fake your own death and let me worry about mine.  Just don’t turn yourself over to Big Brother, after.  Find me.  Let me take you someplace warm: Morocco, Tunisia, The Dominican Republic, Costa Rica.”

“None of which have extradition treaties with the United Kingdom.”

Jim bopped him on the nose.  “Just so.”

“That’s hardly going to stop Mycroft.”

“It wouldn’t be any fun if it did.  Got to have someone to play with.”  His eyes darkened again.  “Unless, you know, you do something stupid, and he gets killed.  Then he won’t be able to help you, and you’ll go to prison.”  He frowned, appearing to talk more to himself than to Sherlock.  “I could break you out, of course, if you came to your senses, but it hardly seems the best way to start our lives together.  People get so sentimental about their relatives.”

“You killed yours.”

Jim chuckled.  “Precisely.”

Sherlock wasn’t particularly sentimental about Mycroft.  In fact, what Jim had said about him having spent most of his adult life trying to prevent Mycroft from ensnaring him in spycraft had hit dangerously close to the mark.  But he was having difficulty calculating the odds of Mycroft identifying and dispatching Jim’s assassin, because his brain was unhelpfully supplying images of himself and Mycroft together as children: Mycroft reading _Origin of Species_ aloud to him, or bringing him a taxidermied bat as a present, or playing deductions with found objects.

“Come on, Sherlock, for _Myke_?”  Jim drew out the syllable into a whine, and Sherlock closed his fist around his necktie, jerking him against the Beretta’s muzzle.  

Mycroft was perfectly capable of taking care of himself.  He would be fine.  Sherlock wasn’t really risking anything.

“You know,” said Jim, “even though he’s a meddling prat, he actually does care about you--and all he really wants is for you to care back.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“Give me a chance, honeybee.  Run away with me.  And if you’re not completely satisfied with your new life, you can always go back to Big Brother.  Tell him I blackmailed you.  Tell him you did me to save him.  He’ll probably be touched.”  Jim smirked.  “Tell yourself that, too, if you want.  I do know how much you want to do the right thing.”

Other visions of his brother flashed through his head: of the Mycroft who made Sherlock feel stupid, who told him, ‘don’t be smart Sherlock, I’m the smart one.’  The Mycroft who regarded Sherlock’s status as schoolyard punching bag as mark of his ‘inability to be diplomatic,’  who warned him not speak about his troubles ‘so as not to upset Mummy.’   The Mycroft who impassively watched Sherlock weeping into Redbeard’s fur on the veterinary clinic floor, who told him only, ‘I told you to leave this to the grown ups, that nothing good would come of your getting involved.’  The Mycroft who regarded ‘apologizing for the state of his little brother’ as his full time occupation, to whom Sherlock’s battles with boredom and addiction and the wretched noise in his head were an _inconvenience_ , which interfered with their parents’ line dancing and his own political ambitions.  The Mycroft who loomed over him in his mind palace, sneering at him in his three piece suits, who turned Sherlock into a child again: a small, lonely child desperate to show off to an older brother who remained eternally disappointed in him.

Still holding the Beretta against Moriarty’s jaw, Sherlock tilted Jim’s head back, leaned down, and kissed him fiercely.

Jim seemed intent on pulling Sherlock’s tongue from his mouth, sucking the air out of his lungs.  Their kiss was all clacking teeth and grasping lips, twisting tongues and hungry throats.  Jim seized one of the Belstaff’s lapels in one fist and a handful of Sherlock’s curls in the other.  Sherlock kissed Jim until his lips ached, until his chin was raw with stubble burn, until the buttons of his own coat and Jim’s pressed bruises into his torso.

When he finally pulled back, breathless, Jim still held onto him as though for dear life; it was impossible not to compare it to the way he’d kept his arms out, cruciform, when Sherlock had threatened to push him from the ledge moments before.  Sherlock let the hand holding the gun drop to his side, staring at the bruise the barrel had left under Jim’s left ear.

“I’m sick of doing the right thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  Source for the [Coriolis Illusion](http://www.skybrary.aero/index.php/Vestibular_System_and_Illusions_\(OGHFA_BN\))


	7. Crossing a Carousel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A rider on the carousel walks radially across it at constant speed, in what appears to the walker to be the straight line path inclined at 45° in Figure 5 . To the stationary observer, however, the walker travels a spiral path. The points identified on both paths in Figure 5 correspond to the same times spaced at equal time intervals.

Jim stared up into Sherlock’s face, unblinking eyes wide, lips puffed from kissing, still holding tight to Sherlock’s coat.  For once, he was mute, as though Sherlock had licked the words out of his mouth.  He was clearly waiting for Sherlock to elaborate on his declaration.

Sherlock pried his lapels from Jim’s fists, taking a step back.  He began to pace the rooftop.  “You said you’d kill yourself if I did,” he said, gesturing with the Beretta.  “Do it.  But don’t kill ‘Richard Brook.’  Kill James Moriarty.  Kill your consulting business.”  

Jim blinked owlishly at him.  “And do what?”

He bit his lip, scratching at his scalp with the pistol.  “Run away with me.”

For a moment, he saw a flash of Jim’s genuinely surprised face, ironically not so different from the self parody; his jaw dropped, and his eyebrows arched, though not so much as when he was clowning.  He recovered quickly, covering his mouth with his hand and collapsing into giggles.  “You want me to just ditch an empire I’ve spent a lifetime building, and disappear with you?”

“Admit it.” Sherlock pressed.  “You want it.  You’ve grown too comfortable.  It’s too easy, directing everything from the center of your spiderweb.  Imagine what it would be like to be the underdog again, to feel the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world.”

Jim shook his head.  “Darling, I’m offering you a chance to rule the world together.  I’m not clear on what your counter-offer is.”

“Me.”

Jim eyed him warily, head cocked to the side.

“ _You_ don't even want what you're offering.  Running the world--that’s Mycroft's vocation.  You’ve never cared about the money or the power, not really.  The only thing that makes the prospect attractive is having me by your side.  If you kill me, or I kill myself, what will it all have been for?”

“It’s not _for_ anything, Sherlock.  It’s meaningless.  Utterly meaningless.”

“Just stayin’ alive,” Sherlock quipped, doing his level best to tower over Jim.  “Is that enough for you?”

“You know it isn’t.  What makes you think you are?”

Sherlock pressed into Jim’s space, initiating a slow dance where he moved forward and Jim slowly moved back. “A romantic might say we were made for each other, Jim; the truth is that we made each other.  Think what we could make together.”

“I have thought about it, Sherlock.  And you’re trying to tell me I don’t want what I want.”

“You want a fairy-tale.”

“I offered you happily ever after.  You’re the one who decided to turn it into The Brother’s Grimm.”

“I’ve been reading them, you know.  Doing research.  How do you feel about Robin Hood?’

Jim laughed aloud.  “The noble outlaw.   _That’s_ your angle?”

“I’m willing to play, Jim.  Within certain rules.”

“Rules are for sissies.”

“Spoken like someone who doesn’t know how to win without tipping over the board.”

Jim smiled, licking his lips.  “Sorry, hon, but that reverse psychology bullshit isn't going to work on me.”

“Sorry, hon,” Sherlock parrotted, “but those are my terms.  All your life, you’ve been looking for distractions.  I’m the best distraction you’ve ever had, and you could _have_ me.  Or you can go back to playing with the ordinary people.”

Jim sniffed.  “Rules.  Morals.  You’re ordinary, Sherlock.  Just like all of them.”

“Oh, please.  You think I’m like your clients?  Your _fans_?” he spat the word.  “Fawning over you, all of them competing, ‘Daddy loves me the best.’” He bounced on his toes, waving his hands in mock hysteria.  “Genius requires more than an appreciative audience.  It requires someone who can push you to be better.  Someone worth being better for.”

“Do you hear yourself?  You think all I need is Daddy’s approval.  And I’ll become an angel, just like you?”

Sherlock stared him down.  “We both know that’s not true.”

Jim lips contorted, settling somewhere between a wince and a smile.  “And how do I know you’re not lying to me?  How do I know you won’t run back to Big Brother at the first opportunity.”

“When I was a child, I told my brother that I wanted to be a pirate.  Mycroft impressed on me that they were less like swashbuckling buccaneers, and more like--”

“Starving Somalis with AK47s.”

“Precisely.  But he still sees me as a romantic, with an overgrown sense of adventure and antisocial tendencies.  You don’t know him like I do.  He’d never believe me if I told him you forced me to go with you.”

Jim cocked his head again, but his face was open, now, considering.  “And what do we do when we get bored?”

Sherlock put on his most condescending expression, the one reserved for Anderson and Donovan when they were being particularly thick.

“I meant something _other_ than each other.  I’m good, Sherlock.  But no one could be that entertaining.”

Sherlock bit his lip.  “I suppose, if you get bored--”

“When,” Jim corrected.

“You can try to kill me, again.”

“What is this, _One Thousand and One Nights_?”

“Maybe,” said Sherlock.  “Let’s start with one?”

Jim shook his head.  “You’re mad.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

Jim traced the edge of Sherlock’s lapel.  “Oh, I can do mad.”  He tilted his face up, lips parting slightly, and Sherlock leaned into his offered kiss.  The sun warmed his shoulders and glinted off Jim’s slicked back hair, and Sherlock gripped his nape, pleased at the way Jim went soft and pliant against him and let him possess his mouth.  Sherlock knew better than to mistake it for surrender.

Their kiss was interrupted by Sherlock’s phone vibrating against his chest.  Repeatedly.  Phone call.  He reached into his pocket.  Lestrade.  He sighed, and let it go to voicemail.

Jim stole another kiss, then sauntered over to the chimneys, slouching down with his back against them, out of the view of anyone on the ground or who ascended the stairwell.  “Win a BAFTA for me.”

Sherlock suppressed the grin pulling at the edges of his lips while he sent a quick text to Mycroft:

 

 

 

> Lazarus

His thumbnail turned white where he pressed it hard against the glass.

Five tense seconds elapsed before his phone chirped in response:

 

 

 

> Lazarus is go.

Sherlock walked towards the edge of the roof, sniffed repeatedly until his throat felt thick, and returned his missed call.

“Sherlock!” the voice on the other end of the phone was frantic.  “Where are you?  Molly said you were on the rooftop at Bart’s.  We’re almost there.”

“No.  Keep them back.  I don’t want to speak to anyone but you.”

“I’ll do my best, Sherlock, but I’m not sure that--”

“Doesn’t matter.  It’ll all be over soon anyway.”

“Don’t say that, Sherlock.  There’s still a way.”

A police car careened around the corner, sirens blaring.  He watched as it pulled up to the kerb and Lestrade and two other officers got out.  

“I see you, Sherlock.  Give me a minute, I’m coming up there.”

“No,” he commanded, as soon as Lestrade got to the point on the pavement where the ambulance station was between him and Sherlock.  “Stay right where you are.”

Lestrade held his palms up in supplication.  “Okay.  I’m not moving.  I’m right here.”

He looked so small on the pavement.  Sherlock couldn’t make out any detail on his upturned face.

“I know things seem bad, Sherlock.  But there’s hope.  Your brother: he can get you a good lawyer.  They can prove you weren’t connected with the crimes.  It would have been better if you hadn’t taken a hostage, but, we can work that out.  Just tell me where he is.”

Sherlock did regret taking Anderson hostage, but mostly because of all the whinging he’d had to endure during their frantic sprint through the city.  Anderson and Donovan had shown up at his flat to gloat and watch Sherlock’s arrest.  When they’d tried to cuff him, Sherlock had wrenched his arm free; Anderson had been the person closest to him, so he’d snapped the open cuff around his wrist.  Then he’d pulled the Beretta from it’s hiding place in his bookshelf, and after he fired two warning shots into the smiley face on the sitting room wall, the officers had tentatively laid down their weapons and let them depart without a fuss.

“Anderson is at Kitty Riley’s flat.”  He neglected to mention the two of them were bound together with duct tape.

“The reporter?”

“I’m not sure she merits that title, but yes.”

“That’s…  Is he alright?”

“Physically, he’s fine.  He’s still a blithering idiot, though.”  He’d stopped the blithering with further application of duct tape.

Lestrade sighed his relief into the phone.  “Okay.  As long as you haven’t hurt him.  Also, why is he at Ms Riley’s?”

“She was sleeping with Moriarty.  He’s her ‘source,’ you know.  I went to her flat to confront her.”  Although technically, he hadn’t known she was Moriarty’s when he’d gone to her flat.  He’d never been so surprised as when ‘Richard’ had come through the door.   In retrospect, he should have seen it.

Lestrade hesitated a moment.  “Is Ms. Riley alright?”

“I didn’t hurt her.”

“Okay.  That’s good.”

Sherlock stepped up onto the wall.  “I’ve hurt a great many other people, Lestrade.”

“It’s not too late to make it right.”

“That’s what I’m doing.  Making it right.  Coming clean.  This is my… confession.”

“No.”  Lestrade reached his arm out towards Sherlock from his position on the ground.

“I didn’t invent Moriarty.”

“I know that, Sherlock.  And we’ll prove it.”

“But I became… involved with him.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

“After the incident with the hostages in the semtex vests.  He approached me.  And I--” he let his voice crack.  “I was so alone, Lestrade.”

“Everyone feels that way, sometimes.”

“Everything after that we did together.  Reichenbach.  The daylight robberies.  I helped him rig the jury, after.”

“Sherlock, you don’t need to say anything now.  Wait until you have representation.”

“I was just trying to have some fun, Lestrade.  It was supposed to be a game.  We never took anything.  But then, Jim abducted the children.  You saw the wrappers.  The mercury.  I told him that I wanted to end it, and he created Richard Brook to ruin me.”

He heard Lestrade sucking in a deep breath.  “Okay.  I’m sure you can negotiate some kind of deal.  If you testify against him--”

“He’s dead.”

“Did--”

“No, I didn’t kill him.  He killed himself and I--”  He blinked hard, forcing the tears to come.  Not that Lestrade would see them, at this distance, but he’d hear them in his broken voice.  “I never meant for things to go this far, Lestrade.  But there’s no going back, now.  And there’s no going on, without him.”

“Sherlock, there are people who love you.”

“Not like him,” Sherlock whispered.

“Sherlock,” he pleaded.

“Goodbye Lestrade.” This time, the sorrow in his voice was real.  If things worked out with Jim, he’d never see Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson, or Molly, ever again.  If they didn’t, he might not ever see anyone again.

“No!”  Lestrade shouted.

Sherlock threw his phone onto the rooftop.  He heard the distinct clacks of plastic as each shattered piece bounced up off the pavement.  His relationship with his brother.  His life in London.  Lestrade’s hope that he would someday be a good man.  Sherlock stretched out his arms, letting the wind flap in his coat, blinking back tears brought on by grief and the light of the morning sun.  And then he jumped.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Source for Crossing a Carousel](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fictitious_force#Crossing_a_carousel)


	8. Rotating Observer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rotating observer sees the walker travel a straight line from the center of the carousel to the periphery, as shown in Figure 5. Moreover, the rotating observer sees that the walker moves at a constant speed in the same direction, so applying Newton's law of inertia, there is zero force upon the walker. These conclusions do not agree with the inertial observer. To obtain agreement, the rotating observer has to introduce fictitious forces that appear to exist in the rotating world, even though there is no apparent reason for them, no apparent gravitational mass, electric charge or what have you, that could account for these fictitious forces.

Sherlock waited at the cemetery.  He had worried that Jim might not come, or that he might deliberately show up late to make Sherlock question whether or not he would come, but Jim appeared punctually, as promised, in his aviator sunglasses and a black coat over a black suit.  Sherlock had never seen him in the color.

“Well, it is your funeral,” Jim deadpanned.

Sherlock smiled, and turned his attention to the triad of people huddled together around his graveside.  Mrs Hudson dabbed her eyes and blew her nose into a handkerchief while Molly, a better actress than he would have previously imagined, snaked an arm around her and patted her shoulder.  Lestrade stood stiffly in his dark trenchcoat, red-rimmed eyes fixed on the headstone.

“Expecting a larger turnout?” Jim drawled in his ear.

“No.  I’m rather surprised Lestrade showed up after all.”

“Why?  Because you confessed your tragic gay love affair?  That was unexpected, by the way.  I thought you were going to pretend you invented me.”

“I decided to go with the the star-crossed lovers narrative instead.”  He dropped his voice to it’s lowest register, “you’ve got to admit, that’s sexier.”

Jim laughed allowed.  “Indeed.  Very Thelma and Louise.”

“Who?”  

Jim goggled at him.  “You don’t seriously mean--” he dropped his jaw.  “You don’t, do you?  Bonnie and Clyde, then.”

Sherlock sniffed.  “Surely you’re not comparing ourselves to a pair of incompetent American bank robbers?”  

Jim chuckled.  “Nevermind. The point is, Good old Greg apparently forgives you.  Probably he blames me.”

“Who?” Sherlock asked again.

Jim goggled at him.  “The DI.   _Lestrade_.  That’s his name.”

Sherlock blinked.  “You’re sure?”

“Yesssss,” Jim said, blinking rapidly.  “You have to get these details right when you take out a contract on someone, you know.”

Sherlock turned to Jim, eyes widening fractionally.

‘Oh, don’t look at me like that.  He’s perfectly safe now; I promised.  They all are.”

“Even Molly?”

Jim sniggered.  “Especially Molly.  I was genuinely fond of her, you know.”

Sherlock frowned, wondering for a moment if--but no, Molly’s blog made it clear her dates with Jim had consisted of watching some inane television show called ‘Glee.’  He’d watched an episode to see if Jim had intended it as some kind of clue, and once he was satisfied this was not the case, had deleted everything about it except a reminder never watch it again.

“Can we go, now?” Jim asked.  “You’re brother’s not a complete idiot; he will start asking questions.”

Sherlock nodded, keeping the rows of hedges between himself and his meager group of mourners as he headed towards the parking lot.  “I take it that means we’ll have to miss your funeral.”

  
Jim matched his pace, lengthening his strides to keep up with Sherlock.  “Alas, my body is still evidence in an ongoing investigation.  The state will cremate me once they rule my death a suicide.”

“How did you do it?” Sherlock asked.  “Don’t tell me about magicians and tricks.”

“I found my body double the same way I found yours.”

“Made one, you mean.”

Jim shrugged.  “Kitty found ‘me’ dead in her flat the same morning you jumped from the rooftop.  Drugs overdose, shouldn’t take the coroner very long.”

It still distressed him that he had such a big blind spot surrounding Ms. Riley.  He hadn’t heard about ‘Jim’ being found in her flat, but the police would of course not have released that detail yet, and he had been loathe to utilize his homeless network; they were compromised since he’d included them in the rooftop contingencies plotted with Mycroft.  “She was in on it from the beginning, wasn’t she?”

“Mmm, not quite.  No, the Kitty you met in the Gents at the Old Bailey was quite what she seemed.”  There was a predatory fondness in his tone which made Sherlock’s skin crawl.  “How was it you described her: hungry and untrustworthy?”  

“Not verbatim, but yes.”  Sherlock found the revelation that Kitty had recounted their conversation to Jim disconcerting.

“Anyway, I introduced myself shortly after the trial.  Ms. Riley never wanted to be a journalist, you know.  She wanted to be a headline.  I told her who I was, how I rigged the jury, and impressed it upon her that I could make her either a very famous woman, or a very dead one.  It didn’t take her long to decide which she wanted to be.”

“Grasping, opportunistic, publicity-hungry tabloid whore.”

“There there, don’t be jealous.” Jim patted his shoulder.  “I pretended she was you when we were in bed, you know.”

Sherlock glared at him.

“Swear to god,” Jim said with mock solemnity, raising his right hand.  “I even made her wear a deerstalker hat.”

“I’m surprised she hasn’t shared that sordid detail with the press.  She’s been all over the morning news shows, who are lapping up what she’s feeding them.  Kitty is a wronged woman, deceived by criminal mastermind Moriarty, jilted lover of the late Sherlock Holmes, his long time partner in crime.”

Jim grinned.  “‘Criminal mastermind?’”

“Her words, not mine,” Sherlock sniffed.  “Also, she claims you were a sex fiend.  That you had sex seven times a night, or some such nonsense.”

“What makes you think it’s not true?”

Sherlock was about to retort when he saw Mike Stamford, standing at the back of another, slightly larger, funeral not terribly far from his own.  He froze, and Jim stopped with him, placing a hand protectively against Sherlock’s back.  Stamford looked out of place amongst the other mourners, who were clearly ex-military by their builds and haircuts, standing at parade rest in their dark suits.

The family, at the front of the graveside, appeared to consist of a hysterical ginger woman whose nose was nearly as red as her hair--a detail her fellow funeral attendees probably attributed to crying but which Sherlock recognized by the tremors in her hand (and the outline of a flask in her coat pocket) as the spider angiomas of the terminal alcoholic.  She leaned heavily on a taller, blonde woman with the drawn expression of a long-suffering partner.

“Did you know him?” Jim asked.

Warmth flooded his skin when he remembered that with Jim, he didn’t need to explain how he knew that they were at a man’s funeral, a soldier’s, most probably an army doctor’s, given the deceased’s friendship with Stamford.  “No,” he said.  “Just one of the mourners.  Old acquaintance of mine; I broke off contact after he tried to set me up with a series of bloody awful potential flatmates.”

After Victor’s dog had bitten him, Sherlock had demanded Mycroft give him access to his trust fund, saying that he was most assuredly not going to spend all his money on drugs--unless he were forced to share his living space.  His brother had relented and allowed him a small stipend, and Sherlock had negotiated a special rate from Mrs Hudson, and between the two things he’d been able to afford Baker Street.

Jim chuckled.  “Good god, _you_ , with a flatmate.”

Sherlock fought to keep his face expressionless.  “So you don’t want to live together?” he asked, keeping his tone as neutral as possible.

Jim’s jaw actually dropped.  “Of course I want to live together.  I don’t want to be _flatmates_.”  He ruffled Sherlock’s hair.  “Doofus.”

Sherlock relaxed, lips quirking into a smile.

“Come on, let’s get out of here before you’re recognized.”

Sherlock nodded absently, flipping up his coat collar.

“I think that may actually make you more conspicuous,” said Jim, not unaffectionately.  “You always turn your collar up to look mysterious in photographs.  We should switch coats.”

Sherlock folded the double breast of the Belstaff over his chest protectively, closing the buttons.  “Absolutely not.”

“You let Irene wear your coat.”

“She was _naked_ ,” Sherlock protested.

“You’re just afraid I’d wear it better than you.”

He snorted.  “Don’t be ridiculous.  Anyway the sleeves would be too long.”

Jim rolled his eyes and reached his hand out for Sherlock’s.

Sherlock interlaced his fingers with Jim’s, and together, they left the cemetery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Source for the [Rotating Observer](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fictitious_force#Rotating_observer)


	9. Epilogue: Two-Body Problem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In classical mechanics, the two-body problem is to determine the motion of two point particles that interact only with each other. Common examples include a satellite orbiting a planet, a planet orbiting a star, two stars orbiting each other (a binary star), and a classical electron orbiting an atomic nucleus.
> 
>  
> 
> [Animated Gif](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Two-body_problem#mediaviewer/File:Orbit5.gif)

Sherlock grips the ropes for leverage.  Jim has left just enough slack for him to twist his fingers underneath the lines of hemp connecting the cuffs around his wrists to the bedposts.  He could escape, if he really wanted to; the coarse fibers have abraded his wrists because he’s struggled, but the knots securing the loops of rope wrapped around them are not tight, and while he’d lose a bit of skin, he could probably wriggle out without dislocating his thumb.  He is also fairly certain Jim will untie him if he safewords, but he has no intention of finding out.

A pillow is tucked beneath his hips, and Jim has pinned Sherlock’s spread thighs to it, is alternating between stabbing his tongue into Sherlock and sucking mercilessly at his rim.  Jim was wise to restrain him.  The rope shackles are the only thing preventing him from grabbing Jim’s head and grinding against his face until he fights for air.  Sherlock's ankles are also bound, but his legs aren’t pulled taut the way his arms are.  They are independently cuffed, like his wrists, with a long length of rope between them running beneath the king sized bed.  The slack allows Jim to maneuver Sherlock’s body for better access.  If Jim weren’t holding him down, he would be able to move his legs, though not completely close them.  

He refuses to beg.  Jim will, eventually, tire of this game; it was clear from their first encounter that Jim wants to fuck him.  He has to want it more than Sherlock wants to be fucked (although if he’s honest with himself, he’s wanted Jim for some time now--but a great deal of the attraction is on an intellectual level).  Still, he’s grown accustomed to Jim’s near constant flirting, and he’s surprised, and, though he would never admit it, disappointed, that Jim hasn’t made a single advance on him in the eight days since they left the cemetery.  In retrospect, Jim could hardly have achieved all he had if he’d allowed sex to distract him, and Sherlock is grateful that Jim has proved able to focus.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock is working with someone who doesn’t hold him back.  When Sherlock jimmied open the door of a car outside the cemetery, Jim pried the plastic panels from the steering column with a screwdriver without being asked.  After Sherlock pick-pocketed the passports of two tourists whose height and weight approximated his and Jim’s, Jim sat beside him in a hotel room, peeling back laminate and sewing up pages--before they retired to separate, queen sized beds.  The passports wouldn’t be good enough to go through airport security, but coach and train station attendants had fewer tools with which to spot alterations.  They made it through the channel tunnel without incident, and Jim never once mentioned how much easier it would have been to go to one of his contacts.

Although Jim has assured him no one knows he is alive except a man he cagily refers to as ‘his Molly,’ they are still utilizing Moriarty’s resources after a fashion.  The house they’ve broken into is Jim’s, indirectly; it is owned by one of his many shell companies who have legitimate investments as well as illicit ones.  The former tenant was the assassin who saved Sherlock’s life as he fled the Yarders and was shot for his trouble.  Jim assured him the house would be stocked with “all the essentials,” which apparently meant a safe filled with euros, a small armory, and, relevant to his current situation, several coils of hemp rope along with plastic sheeting and other instruments he sincerely hopes Jim will not utilize.

The firm, wet muscle of Jim’s tongue pierces him, and Sherlock groans, vainly straining against it.  Jim chuckles, and the vibrations make him clutch his shackles again.  Sherlock was aware of the practice of analingus, but imagined Jim too fastidious to engage in it, imagined himself too fastidious to accept such attention.  He is grateful the restraints leave him without choice in the matter.  

“Mmmm." Jim curls his tongue inside him as though he is delicious.  “I could do this all day.”  He wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s cock before returning his attentions to his entrance.  

Sherlock thinks it would be enough if he could come with Jim’s hand on him and his tongue inside him.  It will be enough, if Jim gives him just a little more friction.  Jim does nothing of the kind.  He backs off, returning to sucking, his thumb feather light over Sherlock’s frenulum.  Sherlock makes a whimpering sound and writhes, and then he loses even the light touch on his cock when Jim uses both hands to hold him still.

“So fucking eager.”  Jim rolls up onto his knees, and Sherlock rears into the emptiness.

He fills his eyes with Jim to compensate for the loss of contact.  Jim has stripped to the waist, but still wears a pair of low slung jeans Sherlock knows must be uncomfortable, although he’s undone his flies to give a bit of space to his obvious erection.  Jim reaches for the bottle of mineral oil they found with the guns, which sits unopened on the mattress.  The house’s former occupant had condoms in his bedside table, but no lubricant (heterosexual, no steady girlfriend, uncircumcised).  Sherlock understands using oil as lube means they won’t be able to use the condoms.  He doesn’t care.  Each of them puts his life in the other’s hands on a daily basis; it seems persnickety to quibble about prophylactics.  

Jim drenches his fingers in the clear, odorless oil, and presses two of them against Sherlock’s sphincter; it is still relaxed from Jim’s earlier efforts with his tongue.  He arches into the touch, and Jim pins him again, pressing his palm against Sherlock’s pubic bone.  Jim runs his tongue up the seam of Sherlock’s cock, taking the head into his mouth at the same moment he breaches him.

“Fuck!” Sherlock smacks his head against the mattress, twisting the ropes in his hands until his palms burn.  Jim’s fingers feel hot inside him.  He knows it is the friction; even with all the oil, there is discomfort, but the feeling of Jim’s lips popping over his glans eclipses everything else.  Sherlock desperately tries to thrust into his mouth.

“Shhh…” Jim whispers into his thigh.  “Patience, pet.”

Sherlock means to snap that he doesn’t want or need to be patient, and he is no one’s pet, but then Jim curves his fingers up, brushing against his prostate, and all he manages is another stream of profanity.  His cock bobs whenever Jim applies pressure to the tingling bundle of nerves; it is flushed red and leaking and he _needs_ Jim’s mouth on it again.  He wonders if the application and cessation of sexual stimuli can cause actual withdrawal symptoms.  

Jim crooks his fingers, making a come-hither gesture, and the word “please,” bypasses Sherlock’s short-circuited brain and tumbles from his lips before he has time to think.

“Now we’re talking.”  Jim lays a kiss on the head of his cock, still denying him suction.  “Please, what?”

“Fuck me!” He hopes he sounds annoyed rather than desperate.  

“All in good time, my pretty.”  Jim withdraws his fingers, leaving Sherlock to tug at his binds while he rummages through the box where they found the rope.  

Sherlock blinks when he sees the syringe.

“What?”  Jim tears the packet open with his teeth.  “There’s no needle.”  He removes the cap from the mineral oil and sucks it up into the plastic tube.

It is rigid, devoid of the warmth and sensitivity of Jim’s fingers, and Sherlock winces slightly when Jim inserts the tip inside him.

“You’ll thank me for this, later.”  Jim pushes the plunger down.  When he withdraws it and puts his fingers back, the lube positively squelches within him, soaking the pillow underneath his hips.  Jim spreads his fingers slightly inside him, then adds a third, just the tips, and holds still.  Sherlock feels the stretch now; the muscle wants to spasm.  He bites his lip.

“Bear down,” Jim instructs, probing gently.  “Try to push me out.”

It seems counterintuitive, and he can’t quite get over the idea that he’s going to evacuate his bowels, but Jim’s fingers slide in easier once he does so.  He supposes it relaxes the voluntary sphincter.  The feeling of fullness remains slightly unpleasant.  Jim twists his fingers carefully, brushing his prostate again, and that makes it better.  Sherlock releases his lip together with his breath.

“Ready for me?” Jim strokes his face with the hand not covered in lube, laying a kiss on his forehead.

He nods, not trusting his voice.

Jim kisses him, holding his weight with one hand while working his erection loose from his jeans with the other.

Sherlock wants to protest; he feels strongly that Jim should be naked, that they should be lying skin to skin, but the unmistakable slick softness of Jim’s glans against his anus makes him swallow his words.

Jim continues to trace slow circles in Sherlock’s mouth, and mirrors the movement with the head of his cock against Sherlock’s entrance.  For the first time, he really, truly, wants Jim inside him, not because he is curious or because he wants to prove he can take it but because his body is circling in counterpoint to Jim’s of its own accord, dilating when Jim presses against him.

“Soon.” Jim pulls back, “I promise.”

Sherlock hisses with annoyance, but when Jim begins pushing his jeans and pants down over his hips, he is relieved that they will be naked together after all; the knowledge that even James Moriarty doesn’t look dignified shimmying out of stretch denim is fair compensation for his frustration.  He bites back his impatience and focuses on gathering new data, eyes following the dusting of hair from Jim’s navel to his cock, where it is trimmed close.  His erection is proud, but not intimidating, and curves to the left.  Sherlock wants to press his lips to the purple head and lick the fluid from the tip.

Jim smirks knowingly.  “Not this time.  I’ll face fuck you into the headboard once I’ve taught you to deepthroat.”

Sherlock feels a flush creeping into his cheeks.  Not for the first time since the day he braced himself against the fireplace, he regrets never having accepted any previous propositions.  He doesn’t want Jim to coddle him, but being fellated taught him that pulling a calf-cramping orgasm out of someone requires skills he doesn’t have, and it vexes him to know Jim is better than he at something.

Jim laughs, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull off his socks.  “Look at you, all blushing and pouty.  I can’t tell you how amazingly sexy it is knowing I’m your first.”

Sherlock sniffs.

“And not for the reasons you think, either.”

He raises an eyebrow.  “What do you think I think?”

“That I want to steal your innocence.”  Jim kisses his kneecap.  “Corrupt you.”  He crawls across Sherlock again.  “Deflower you.”  He kisses his nose.  “Take your maidenhead.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I haven’t got--”

Jim rolls his eyes.  “Always so literal.  I’m just trying to show you what an idiot you are.  I love being your first because you’re a beautiful, blank slate, Sherlock.  Because you’ve never had any bad sexual experiences.  Because I can make sure you never do.”

Jim kneels between Sherlock’s legs, widening his stance, and he sees Jim’s thighs clearly for the first time.  Small, round, cigarette burn scars mar the surface of his skin, white and old, visible only because the hair doesn’t grow there anymore.  An uglier scar near the junction of his thigh and groin is more obvious, a gnarled, pink parabola--clothes iron.

Jim draws himself up to his full, kneeling height, spine straight, and swivels his head on his neck, watching Sherlock warily through narrowed eyes, jaw tight.

Sherlock swallows his deductions, keeping his eyes locked on Jim’s.

It is apparently the right decision.

Jim props himself over Sherlock, holding his weight on his right elbow as his left hand guides his cock.

“Breathe with me,” Jim urges.

He does.

And then Jim is inside him.  A sound very like a sob escapes his lips.  He isn’t sure if it’s from relief, or pain, or pleasure, or just from his diaphragm forcing air out of him as Jim pushes in.  Jim’s hands close around his; the rope chafes their palms as he intertwines their fingers.

Everything slows down.  He feels every wrinkle in the 80/20 cotton rayon sheets, every millimeter of Jim inside him, and he hasn’t even moved except incidentally.  He feels the press of Jim’s forearms on his, hard enough to bruise.  And that is good; it’s the only thing keeping him anchored, that and the weight of Jim’s chest on his.  The delicious pressure is slightly spoiled by the sheer _heat_ of their bodies pressing together, by the stickiness of their sweat.

Then Jim rocks into him, and the world goes white.  White heat inside him.  White light behind his eyes.  White noise filling his ears.

“Shhh,” Jim whispers over him.  “I have you.”

He shakes his head, sweat slicked curls sticking to the pillow.  It’s too much, too much and--

Jim pulls out gently, and lies across him, covering him with his weight until Sherlock settles.  He feels Jim’s lips lay warm kisses over his eyelids, and those are _not_ tears leaking between his lashes.  Jim’s tongue darts out, tasting them, and he jerks his head away because he has failed, and Jim will--

Jim kneels up again, and Sherlock bites back a whimper at the loss of contact.  He needs to get over this, and quickly, because Jim is going to leave, he--

Jim has picked up the bottle of oil while Sherlock was flailing, and he pours some of the contents over both their cocks.  He straddles Sherlock, braces himself against the headboard with one hand while stroking their slick erections together with the other.

Sherlock watches, still leery, as Jim rises up abruptly, still stroking Sherlock with his left hand, and shifts his legs from kneeling into a squat.  “What are you doing?”

Jim slides his own slicked hand behind him, eyes falling closed as he smears oil on himself.  When he finishes, he pulls the pillow out from under Sherlock’s hips, wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s cock and lines them up.  “Make a deduction.”

Sherlock squirms on the mattress, adjusting to his new position flat on his back, bringing his legs as close as possible to closed.  “Won’t it hurt?”

Jim shrugs.

Sherlock pulls at his binds.  He wants to sit up, to look Jim in the eye.

“It will be fine.”  Jim pushes a hand against his chest before grasping the headboard.  “Just lay back and enjoy the ride.”

Sherlock keeps his eyes on Jim’s as he works his way down, slowly, balancing himself with one hand and holding Sherlock steady with the other.  He lies still, letting Jim tease himself, clenching and unclenching his muscles while making slow, firm circles with Sherlock’s glans, effectively reversing what he did moments before.

He is startled and, hatefully, grateful, that Jim has said nothing about Sherlock’s earlier breakdown, that he has readily changed their places without breaking stride.

When he finally takes Sherlock’s cock inside him, a surge of pleasure lances along his spine, into his bound legs, and he moans.  Or maybe Jim moans.  Maybe they moan together.  Jim’s arse is even hotter than his mouth, and orders of magnitude tighter.  He bites the insides of his cheeks and stares at the place where Jim’s body swallows his; the taut muscles of Jim’s thighs strain with the effort of controlling his descent.  It takes all of Sherlock's willpower not to thrust up into him.

Jim strokes the portion of Sherlock’s cock still outside his body with his hand; his own erection has flagged and his brow furrows in concentration.

“I’m hurting you.”

Jim shakes his head.  “It’s fine.  Just let me control the depth until I acclimate.”  He slides up an inch, and then back down, further this time, exhaling as he does so.

Sherlock has never needed anything as much as he needs to be completely inside Jim’s body right now.

And then suddenly, he is.  Jim sits the rest of the way down, completely enveloping Sherlock in his tight heat; he feels Jim’s heartbeat pulsing faintly against his own veins.  Slowly, Jim repositions his legs, switches back to kneeling, tilting forwards until he rests against Sherlock's chest, cradling Sherlock’s face in his hands.  For a few heartbeats Sherlock wonders if Jim will kiss him, but it seems Jim just wants to stare at him and share his air.  Then he moves.

“God,” Sherlock hisses.

“Me,” Jim grins.

“Figure of--”

Jim tucks his head and covers Sherlock’s mouth with his, stealing his words.

Sherlock stabs his tongue up into Jim’s mouth, showing him what he wants to do with the rest of his body.

Jim releases him, coiling into a squat again, bracing himself with both hands against the headboard, and nods.  “You can fuck me back, now.  I can take it.”

He undulates under Jim, trying to match his rhythm, arching up to meet him whenever Jim pushes down.  It’s frustratingly hit and miss.  Moments of synchrony alternate with tumult.  He thinks it might be easier if he could grip Jim’s hips.  But the expressions on Jim’s face make the awkwardness worth it; his eyelids are heavy and his lips part and his breath comes short and fast when Sherlock pushes into him.

Jim’s erection has come back in full force, though he never once put his hand on it once he started riding, and he’s begun leaking onto Sherlock’s belly.  He watches in fascination, wondering if Jim can climax this way; he knows some men can orgasm from prostate stimulation alone.  Tightness is traveling up his legs, into his balls, and he hopes he can last long enough for Jim to reach satisfaction.  He closes his eyes, counting off the digits of Pi.

“No,” Jim admonishes, smacking his cheek.  “Stay with me.”

Sherlock opens his eyes and purses his lips.  “I’m going to come.”

Jim laughs aloud.  “Oh, darling.”  He braces himself with his hands and gingerly pulls up off Sherlock.

Sherlock ruts into the air once before falling, defeated, back to the mattress.

“You’re going to have to work a bit harder for that.”

 

* * *

 

They begin a brutal cycle.  Jim rides Sherlock’s cock until he’s at the edge of orgasm, then leaves him hanging, writhing untouched while he smirks and strokes himself.  Each round ends more quickly than the one before as Sherlock’s fuse gets shorter.  He’s convinced that Jim will slip; he’ll miscalculate and Sherlock will climax inside him.  But Jim is ruthlessly observant and sexually dextrous, and he’s able to cut off Sherlock’s pleasure every time.

His hair and the sheets are both soaked with sweat.  His legs tremble uncontrollably.  It is unmistakably clear that even though Jim is the one being penetrated, Sherlock is the one being fucked.  He’s lost the ability to do anything but lie back and be ridden.

His consoles himself by watching Jim unravel, too.  Jim’s face and chest are glistening wet, and he’s kneeling now, having given up squatting after round three.  His muscles show signs of strain when he climbs off Sherlock.

“Jim,” he whispers.  He hates how rough it sounds.

“Yes, love?”

He doesn’t know if this is an endearment or an admission.  It frightens him that he can’t tell.

“Will you let me come if I do it with you inside me?”  His voice sounds surer than he feels.

Jim brushes his thumb along Sherlock’s chin.  “Darling, that’s not the game.”

“But you want to.”  Jim’s first inclination had been to fuck him, until he saw Sherlock couldn’t handle it.

“You don’t.”

“I do.  I want to try again.”

Jim narrows his eyes, scrutinizing.  “No.”  He’s already astride again, tossing his head back as he slides down Sherlock with a sigh.  He runs his hands up his own torso, plucks pink nipples, twists them, teases himself and Sherlock by rotating his hips like a belly dancer, tracing figure eights above his cock.

His body is incorporeal again.  He floats outside himself, spinning slowly atop the blades of the ceiling fan, watching Jim gyrate atop his body.  Gooseflesh blooms on his skin as his sweat evaporates, sapping the heat and the will out of him.

Jim alights.  Sherlock doesn’t know why; he wasn’t even close.  He’s so far outside  himself he’s not sure it’s possible for him to finish.  He watches with disinterest as Jim lifts Sherlock’s hips, splays him like a specimen to be skinned, and mounts him.

Heat burns him into being from the inside out.  The bundle of nerves within him burgeons as Jim ruts against it; synapses relay their reality along his spine and into his brain.  His muscles materialize as the filaments contract, slide across one another as Jim’s legs slide across his.  Jim’s weight forces the air from him, summons his lungs.  He grimaces ‘Jim’ through gritted teeth and groans, waking his vocal folds.  Sherlock _thrashes_ under Jim, kicking his shins, digging his fingernails into the backs of Jim’s hands, biting his lower lip until he tastes copper, tantalizingly bright against revived taste buds.  He forces Jim to use his leverage, his weight, to pin Sherlock’s thighs with his knees, to press his forehead tight to his, to clench his hands in his until he feels his metacarpals shifting.  Only the parts of his body where Jim applies pressure are real.  So he fights, bites, claws, twists, until Jim brings his whole body into being.

Jim holds him tight and lets Sherlock struggle until he solidifies.  He writhes until he’s spent, until his limbs are limp again.  Jim gingerly untangles their fingers, kisses Sherlock one more time, and sits up, licking his bleeding lip.  Then he pulls Sherlock into his lap and fucks him.

He instantly understands why Jim changed angles.  He misses the skin to skin contact, but appreciates the more consistent stimulation of his prostate.  He adjusts his own body until Jim hits it every time, until he’s shaking with the force of Jim’s movements and his own pleasure.  He clenches the ropes again.  His palms are very real, and very red; the fibers make them itch.  

Now that he’s back in his body, it occurs to him to chase his orgasm again.  He believes he read the situation correctly: it will please Jim if Sherlock can come just from his cock inside him.  He isn’t sure if he is capable; masturbation had been about efficiency for him, and is, unfortunately, one of the few areas in which he hasn’t done much experimenting.  His leverage in this position is pitiful, but he plants his feet in the mess of the sheets and tries to push back.  His cock leaks copiously on his belly, fluid dribbling as Jim relentlessly strikes his spot, and he feels a vague sensation of needing to pee, which research suggests is a promising indicator.  More than anything, he hopes Jim will stroke him again; he’s close enough to climax from even the lightest touch.

Jim is close, too, he moans brokenly as he slams into Sherlock, making him bounce and shudder and release a sound he can only describe as a wail.  All the muscles in Jim’s arms and abdomen clench as he clutches the headboard, body taut as an over-tightened violin string, stretched to near snapping and screechingly, ear-splittingly out of tune.  His face contorts in ecstasy as he buries himself arythmically in Sherlock.  He can feel Jim pulsing inside him, and Sherlock is desperate to follow; he wants them to crash over the falls together.

“I think I can--” he pushes back on Jim, curling his fingers and toes.  “If you just…”

Jim pulls out swiftly and actually _drops_ him on the bed.  His buttocks thud into the mattress, and breath and hope leave him.

He’s bereft, aching; Jim has taken his pleasure and now he will taunt Sherlock in his desperation.  He is humiliated.  He is helpless.  He can’t even roll away, turn his back.  Jim is on top of him again, kneeling over him, and he--

Will.  Not.  Beg.

He blanches when he realizes he’s said it out loud.  He wants to scream but refuses to give Jim the satisfaction.

“Shhh.”  Jim presses a finger to Sherlock’s lips.  “I will take care of you.”  He slides down in a single, smooth motion, a twinge of pain fluttering across his face.  He curls to kiss Sherlock, rocks his hips once, twice.  Sherlock shouts into Jim’s mouth, trembling as his seed spurts up inside him.

 

* * *

 

The minutes tick by as they lie entangled in each other and the heavy silence. Sherlock’s fingers are finally beginning to fall asleep.  Or maybe they’ve been asleep and he’s just noticed.  Jim sluggishly slides off of him and kneels up, popping his neck and rolling his shoulders. He stretches, first his arms, then his legs, pointing them out towards the floor and then standing up.  He pads around the bed and loosens the ropes from the headboard, and rubs warmth and life back into Sherlock’s tingling hands, kissing his fingernails.  He does the same to his other wrist, and then to his ankles, leaving the rope coiled loosely on the floor.

Once Sherlock is unbound, Jim wanders into the kitchen (weaving like a drunk, Sherlock notes with satisfaction) and returns with a can of Sprite, tapping at the lid before opening it with a wet pop.  He takes a sip himself before sitting on the bed next to Sherlock.  

“Haven’t got a straw, sorry.  Can you sit up?”

Sherlock scowls, pushing himself up on his elbows, finding it rather more difficult than he expected.  Jim sets the Sprite on the nightstand and slides his hands under Sherlock’s armpits, hauling him to a mostly vertical position.  He leans in as though to kiss Sherlock, and then, suddenly skittish, reconsiders.  He places the can in Sherlock’s hand and twines his trembling fingers around it, helping him hold it steady as he brings it to his lips.  It is sweet and cold enough to make his teeth ache, and he gulps it greedily.

“Easy.” Jim touches his arm.

He blinks, and stops drinking, returns the can to the nightstand.

Jim takes another sip, eying him warily.

“Shouldn’t we--shower or something?” Sherlock asks.

“If y’like.”  The Irish in his voice is coming out.  Sherlock knows he means to sound casual, but the undercurrent of vulnerability beneath the lilt makes Sherlock suspect that he while he’s agreed to bathe, he’d rather not.  He doubts this desire can be explained by mere fatigue, but he’s uncertain if the motivation is sexual--does Jim, even post orgasm, find the idea of them falling asleep with their seed inside each other erotic, or is it sentiment?  Perhaps it is merely the prolactin.  He requires more data.

He shrugs, mimicking Jim’s feigned ease.  “I suppose it can wait until morning.”  He realizes with a start he’s lost awareness of time; he knows only that the sky outside the bedroom window indicates it’s night, or early morning.  The sulfur glow of the street lamps bathes everything in amber.

Jim turns the blinds, plunging them into dark.  Sherlock blinks, eyes still adjusting, listening to Jim’s quiet footsteps moving to the other side of the bed.  The sheets crinkle when Jim climbs in, the mattress dipping under his weight.

Sherlock reaches for Jim in the dark, finds slender, deceptively strong arms reaching back for him.  He folds himself around Jim, who lets out a small, contented sigh and curls against Sherlock’s chest.  The deduction is elementary; the decision about what to do with this new knowledge is not.  He has always thought of love in terms of chemistry.  Serotonin.  Oxytocin.  Incredibly simple, and very destructive.  It is the easiest thing in the world to press his lips to the top of Jim’s head, to let his fingers trace the prickly whorl at his nape.  It is more difficult to close his eyes, to let himself drift off to sleep with the most dangerous man in the world in his arms.  

“Shhh,” Jim mutters.  “I’m trying to sleep.”

Sherlock frowns.  “I’m not saying anything.”

“You’re thinking loudly.  It’s annoying.”  Jim yawns.  “You don’t honestly think I’d kill you in your sleep, do you?”

  
“‘Course not.  You’ve had ample opportunity.”  He and Jim have slept in snatches in one another’s presence, always in bus seats or on train cars, one of them keeping vigil.  Never together.  “I’m just not used to sleeping… accompanied.”  He hasn’t shared a bed since he was a child, slinking into Mycroft’s after a nightmare.  

“Learn to,” Jim grumbles, but he disentangles his limbs from Sherlock’s and turns over to his own side.

Sherlock feels an inexplicable desire to roll after him, to wrap the length of his torso around Jim’s back.  He remembers being held in the cells, sensing Jim’s presence on the other side of the wall, feeling, irrationally, that he was being watched through the cinder blocks.  Then, he’d suppressed the urge to put his hand on the wall, to yield to the magnetism he had always felt between them.  He surrenders now, nuzzling Jim’s nape and settling his forearm on top of Jim’s thigh.

Jim gingerly uncurls against Sherlock.  “I didn’t think you’d want to cuddle.”

He stiffens against Jim.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining.  I just--I was worried I went to far.”

He doesn’t know how to answer, if he should answer.  He isn’t sure his transport can handle so much intense sensation on a regular basis.  Having Jim inside of him, pleasurable though it was, had been terrifyingly intimate.  He felt exposed, not naked so much as flayed, as though Jim had peeled back the skin and muscle from his nerves and applied an electric current.  While it was gloriously flattering to be the object of such intense focus, he feels wrung out, now, exhausted.

“Why did you say ‘no,’ and then--”

“I’m changeable,” he hears Jim’s smile in the dark.  “It is a weakness of mine.”  He turns in Sherlock’s arms, facing him, adding in a soberer tone, “I knew you wanted it, but I knew it overwhelmed you, too.  Then I saw you drifting, and I thought maybe I could take you when you weren’t _thinking_ about it.  I won’t do that again if you don’t want to.  But bottoming is about being, not doing.  I wanted you to let go.”

Sherlock doesn’t want to drift on sensation.  He wants to analyze, dissect, catalogue.  He wants to study Jim’s reactions, and his own.  “I think I’d prefer to top.”

Jim chuckles, low and throaty and wicked.  The vibration resounds against Sherlock’s belly.  “Course you would.  Honestly, I’d prefer it, but I can’t let you.”

Sherlock frowns.  “If you yourself would rather--”

“When you can _take_ control, Sherlock, and keep it, I’ll be a happy bitch.”

“Don’t be vulgar.”

“Make me be polite.”

Jim’s snark sparks something near his core.  It’s like finding a tantalizing new clue, like--when Carl Powers’s trainers turned up in 221C.  This is another game; Jim has made his opening move, and Sherlock wants, oh how he wants, to win, to make Jim forfeit, to bring him to his knees.  But Jim is right.  He isn’t certain he could, yet, and won’t try until he has at least even odds of success.

“I will,” he promises.  He doesn’t know when.  It might take months before they lose his brother, and until then they will only have stolen moments in stolen houses.  But for the first time, he feels certain that he and Jim will have more nights and days together, that they are running towards and not just away from something.

Jim traces the contours of his face, having heard everything Sherlock has left unsaid.  “Oh honey,” he kisses his nose.  “I hope so.”

* * *

 

_**~Fin~**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  Source for [Two-body Problem](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Two-body_problem).

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you everyone for reading this fic. I have been wanting to write these two together for a long time, and Alter's prompt provided the perfect conceit for me to try it. I think the initial assumption was perhaps that John is what keeps Sherlock right, that he would be lost in a universe which lacks the 'one fixed point.' I think the result is perhaps more complicated; my betas had different opinions about whether Sherlock has in fact set out on the wrong path, and I am sure you all will, as well. Your perspective will depend on your frame of reference; that became increasingly clear as I was writing this story and I ended up using it as the metaphor for the chapter titles. 
> 
> For more of my (frequently Sheriarty-centric) musings, check out [my tumblr](http://anarfea.tumblr.com/).


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